


the winter of his youth

by thesecretdetectivecollection



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Also Matt is super emo, Frank trying to have a human relationship with another person, Fratt Week, Gen, M/M, Matt being forced into sharing his emotions, Prompt: Date, Suicidal Ideation, used very very loosely, why can't you feel emotions in a healthy way Matthew
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:41:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24486037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecretdetectivecollection/pseuds/thesecretdetectivecollection
Summary: Frank doesn’t know Matt Murdock all that well. He’d meant it, that first night, when he said he didn’t care who he was. He could’ve done some digging, found some dirt, or a wound to poke at, but he hasn’t felt the need, not even in the month they’ve been tentatively collaborating.He doesn’t know Matt Murdock that well. But he does know a little about the Devil.And he knows that something's wrong with him.
Relationships: (very very slightly implied and not acted upon), Frank Castle & Matt Murdock, Frank Castle/Matt Murdock
Comments: 18
Kudos: 253
Collections: Fratt Week





	the winter of his youth

Red’s been quiet all night. They’d set out separately, run into each other following different threads to the same mess, and agreed that they’d be better off continuing together.

They’d dismantled some petty criminals with the usual amount of difficulty—they’re both good at what they do, but it’s always hard. It’s always hard, being on alert for hours on end, your whole body, your mind locked with laser focus on the idea that you must stay alive. The moment it starts to get easy is the moment you wake up dead.

Frank likes it, actually. Survival mode is familiar. He doesn’t have time to think about Maria or Frankie or his sweet Lisa when he’s dodging a knife, or bracing for the impact of a bullet to the vest.

He’s not one for a lot of chitchat during his work—probably comes from the way he’d distanced himself from his platoon-mates once the first few had died. After that, he’s worked alone for the most part, is just figuring out how to interact with Red without both of them bleeding all over New York.

The thing is, Frank doesn’t know the guy that well. He understands him, sure, in a sort of intuitive way, but he doesn’t _know_ him. He understands what drives him, understands the part of him that gets back up after any other man would stay down. He understands the way he lets himself fall in between opponents, lets them think he’s flagging while simultaneously recovering enough for the next one. It’s a smart tactic, particularly for Red, who favors his fists over knives or guns.

It’s exhausting, though, and when Frank’s been out with him, he feels it the next day, in a different way than when he does things himself, when he can take care of things from a distance and walk away without so much as a bruise.

It must be bad, for Frank to notice it. He’s got a pretty good sense of people, he thinks, but Murdock is mystery wrapped in enigma. Ask the guy one question and the answer only leaves you with two more. The man’s an expert at talking around the shit that matters. He’s a goddamn _professional_ at redirection, misdirection, insinuation, manipulation.

Goddamn lawyers.

The things Frank knows about him aren’t from his words. (Other than his damned preaching—he’s vague about everything else, but he’s _crystal-_ fucking- _clear_ about his morals and why Frank’s a piece of shit and _he’s_ a goddamn saint.)

The things Frank knows are all based on his actions—the way he stands tall, the way he fights, with the grace of a dancer and the strength of a soldier, the way he strips down afterwards, shedding clothes like a snake sheds its skin and leaving a trail of blood as he walks to the bathroom to get the medkit. There have been times when Frank’s crashed at his place, times when Red’s crashed at his, and for such a fucking altar boy, he’s remarkably unbothered by nudity—his own and others’, although Frank’s nearly certain he can sense it. Frank knows the way he walks off injuries that would leave other men in tears on the floor, begging for death.

Frank knows how goddamn _stubborn_ he is. And not just in the words he never gets tired of repeating, the circles he’ll talk endlessly, because every single time, he thinks that maybe this is the time it’ll stick. It’s in the way he throws his billy clubs every time Frank aims for a kill shot, never hesitates to punch even his ally in the face. The hesitation costs them both—usually Matt, though. There have been times where they’ve been in the thick of it, and Frank thinks he might just be distracted enough and lines up a kill shot. Every single time, Matt’s intervened—thrown himself at the victim, taken out the lights, shoved Frank so his aim is off, thrown a club at the gun.

Jumped in front of the asshole who _deserved_ to die. Taken the bullet into his own body instead.

So yeah, maybe Frank doesn’t know Matt Murdock all that well. He’d meant it, that first night, when he said he didn’t care who he was. He could’ve done some digging, found some dirt, or a wound to poke at, but he hasn’t felt the need, not even in the month they’ve been tentatively collaborating. He doesn’t know the guy’s favorite drink, or whether he was a momma’s boy or his dad’s kid, or whether he played any sports before he lost his sight, or whether he ever considered anything other than the law. He doesn’t know any of that stuff, and he doesn’t really care.

He doesn’t know Matt Murdock that well. But he does know a little about the Devil.

So it throws him, when Murdock’s quiet all night. He’s not much of a _sharer_ , sure, but they’re on good enough terms for small talk. _Hi, how are you, got some coffee or sandwiches or takeout, d’you want some_ , that kinda thing.

Tonight he grunts Frank’s name as a greeting, and when Frank returns it in kind, doesn’t opt to continue the conversation. They trail after each other, taking it in turns to lead, twinned stars orbiting each other.

They find the warehouse where the Albanians’ bring their girls. Murdock’s strange with women—he’s brutally efficient with their captors, dismantles them dispassionately and doesn’t stop Frank from aiming at knees. They won’t bleed out, but they will be disabled, probably permanently, and Murdock lets him get away with it.

“Let’s go,” Frank says, at the end of it, heading towards a fire escape to get to the roof.

But Murdock waves him away, stays behind with the women. He calls the police, sets his billy clubs back in their holsters, relaxes his shoulders and smiles, hands out as he approaches the terrified women.

“It’s okay,” he promises them, crouching down low, making himself less of a threat, “it’s okay, I’ll stay with you until the police get here.”

Soon they trust him, approaching him, still cautious. He lets them.

“Frank, get outta here. You can’t be here when the cops show up,” he says, voice still quiet.

Frank shrugs, takes the advice, and gets onto the next rooftop, setting up the rifle scope and pointing it through the window, focused entirely on the Devil.

He’s tired. God, he’s always tired these days. Being the Punisher isn’t enough to keep a roof over his head, so he picks up odd jobs now and then, fixes roofs, does plumbing, paints, messes around with cars, whatever comes his way. It’s physical work, which means he probably expends more energy hour to hour than Red does, but he controls his own schedule, doesn’t have to work around courts and judges and the opposition.

Murdock doesn’t even seem to sleep, really. Frank wonders what sleep deprivation is like without sight—his vision blurring is the first warning sign that he needs to get some rest. Maybe Murdock never fully realizes how fucking exhausted he is. He’s good at blocking out pain, at blocking out sensation and stimulus. Maybe he doesn’t hear his own heart when it races from the slightest thing, maybe he doesn’t feel the pain in his muscles and his bones and his head.

Or maybe he feels it all and keeps going anyway. Frank can’t decide if that’s admirable or idiotic. It’s probably both.

The cops come, and Murdock hands the women over to Mahoney with a handshake, and then he’s off, running over and away, in the opposite direction from where Frank is.

He stays put, waits for him to circle back. No way Murdock doesn’t know he’s here—he just doesn’t want any curious eyes to follow him en route to a rendez-vous with a wanted felon.

“You coulda gone home, Frank,” he says, once he finally gets onto the right roof.

“You have broken ribs, Red, and I don’t trust you to ice ‘em.”

Red looks at him and shakes his head.

“Go home. Get some rest. I’m not done yet,” he says, “I’ll be out awhile longer.”

“Doing what? We took out the Albanians—trafficking was their top source of capital—we can take out their base tomorrow, wrap ‘em up and give ‘em to your cop friend.”

“Tomorrow’s too late,” Red says vaguely, “I’m going now.”

“You’ll get yourself killed,” Frank mutters, “and what, you want me to stop you or somethin’? Ain’t gonna happen. You wanna die, go for it, altar boy. I ain’t a babysitter.”

Red opens his mouth to say something, but all that comes out is a sigh, and then he’s off.

Frank curses under his breath and heads back to his safe house. Red wants to be an idiot, wants to go out and get himself killed tonight, that’s on him. Frank’s playing the long game—he’s gonna be around to take down the Albanians, sure, but he’ll be around for the next guys, too, and the next, and the next.

He’s halfway there when his feet turn without his permission, take him straight to the Albanians’ base.

Murdock’s pulling his same old Murdock shit. _That’s_ what happens when Frank leaves him alone for ten minutes. He goes off and ends up fighting half a dozen guys at once with nothing but his goddamn _chopsticks_ and his witty fucking _repartee_.

Frank, on the other hand, prefers weapons that draw blood. He uses both the KA-BAR and his handgun to good effect, and it comes naturally, the way he uses them both, switches from one to another effortlessly, uses a guy’s back as a makeshift knife holster as he reloads the gun, retrieving it in the next breath while he aims a bullet at a scumbag’s brain.

He isn’t playing by the altar boy’s rules this time, and Red’s just barely with it enough to throw his club at Frank’s gun.

That split second of motion is enough for one of the Albanians to make his move, launching a hell of a haymaker that lands the Devil on his back. For any other man, Frank would have said that kind of hit would have him blinking stars out of his eyes. He wonders, in some detached part of his brain, separated from the situation, whether Matt sees stars when he takes one too many hits to the helmet. It’s not about _seeing_ , after all, it’s about the hit—right?

He’ll have to ask him, after he kills the rest of these fuckers.

Only Murdock—fucking _Murdock_ —doesn’t stay down, struggles pathetically to a distant cousin of upright, folded almost in half, spine too weak to hold his torso.

Frank really shouldn’t be surprised, though, when he reaches out with sudden swiftness, throws a punch himself, absorbing the blow it earns him with an alarming lack of reaction.

The punch would be alright, in a playground brawl, maybe, but against grown men, it barely glances off, it serves only to provoke.

The Albanian pulls his hand back, fist clenched, face puffy but still visibly furious, even under the darkening bruises.

Frank takes aim.

“No—“ Murdock begs, and the Albanian looks real fucking pleased with himself, that he’s got Daredevil begging for his life.

Idiot doesn’t know that he’s talking to Frank, who sighs and puts the bullet in his shoulder instead, follows it up by getting on top of him and slamming his head into the floor.

He’s getting soft, he thinks to himself. Making concessions to the goddamn altar boy when he doesn’t have to, when they didn’t plan this out, didn’t do any fucking recon, didn’t establish any rules of engagement ahead of time.

He drags the kid to his apartment—it’s closer than Frank’s safehouse.

“Uh, thanks,” the kid mutters, making no effort to strip off the suit. He isn’t even laying down, fists still clenched as he leans his hip against the arm of the sofa—feigning a sort of casualness that masks the fact that he needs support to stay on his feet. “See you later.”

It’s a dismissal, and Red’s never tried that on him before—never had the balls. After a fuckup like that, they’re accountable to each other, they apologize, patch each other up.

“What the fuck was that?”

He shifts, not letting on that it hurts except in an exhale that’s just slightly too sharp.

“I made a mistake. Miscalculated. Sorry.” He pauses a moment. “I’m fine, really. You can go now.”

He’s still got his fucking helmet on. The helmet’s the first thing that comes off, when they get somewhere private. Matt knows how important it is, though he thinks of it more as a mask, where Frank thinks of it as a helmet, a piece of fucking protective equipment. He still hates the pressure of it, though, always lets out a sigh of relief when he can feel the air on the top half of his face again.

“You’re off—you’ve been off all night. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” Red’s tired—too tired to deflect, too tired to spin a web of bullshit, or turn it around on Frank, accuse him of projecting. He’s just going with straight bald-faced lies, another sign of how compromised he is.

“Take off the suit,” Frank orders.

“Tryin’ to get me naked?” That’s a little more like him, though it’s weak. “You can go, Frank, I’m fine.”

“You had a broken rib before you went to the base, and then you had even _more_ of the shit beat out of you, so _no_ , you’re not fine.”

“I’ll call Claire, then. Go. Get out, Frank, I don’t want you here.” God, Frank hates him, hates that he has to be stubborn about every-fucking-thing.

“I’ll wait for you to call, then.” He smiles, because it’ll piss Red off, and strolls across the room, sitting in the sofa and waiting.

Murdock doesn’t move.

“Phone’s in your pocket,” Frank says helpfully, pitching his voice up a little just so Red knows he’s being deliberately annoying. “Or you can borrow mine, if you want.” He pulls his burner out of his pocket and holds it in his outstretched arm, offering it to him.

“Get out of my house.” Matt’s angry all of a sudden, and he’s never been like this before, and every alarm bell Frank’s got in his head is ringing, because _something is wrong_. The anger—something about it rings false, as if he’s trying to hide behind it.

“Take off the suit.”

“Get out, or I’ll make you get out.”

“Take off the suit, or I’ll realize I have a sudden, dire need for legal advice.”

Matt stills, lips curled back into a snarl, a cornered animal.

“Good thing I’ve still got my lawyer’s number,” Frank continues, “the good one, I mean. The one who actually showed up. You know what, the guy’s so good, I bet he’d agree to come out in the middle of the night and meet me—anything to help, Nelson’s a real stand-up guy—“

Matt’s jaw is clenched so tight it looks like it’s ready to snap.

“We’re done. It’s over. Get out, or I’ll call the police.”

It’s an empty threat—what’s he going to tell them, that the Punisher came into his home, dressed him up like the Devil, and took out all his frustration on him, beat him to a bloody pulp?

“Not until you take off the goddamn suit.”

Matt sighs. “I’m not going to do that,” he says, almost calm, “I’m not done for tonight. I can hear—I can still _hear_ them, so I’m going to ask you one last time to please, get the _fuck_ out of my apartment, and leave me alone.”

“You’re going out again,” Frank says flatly.

“Yes.”

“Stand up.”

Murdock knows he’s caught, and he hesitates before he responds.

“I am standing.”

“On your own, without the couch.”

Matt’s jaw seems to tighten even further, and he pulls his weight away from the sofa, wavering the slightest amount before locking his knees.

Frank rises to his feet, steps closer, as if to walk past him to the window, and suddenly pulls his gun. It’s a stupid move, and it wouldn’t work ninety-nine times out of a hundred, not on Matt, but Matt’s stupid right now, too, so it does.

He stills at the pressure of the barrel against his chest.

“You’re not going to shoot me.”

“Not if you sit down like a good boy and take off your suit,” Frank agrees pleasantly.

Matt doesn’t move. God, even now, he _doesn’t. Fucking. Move._

“You know what, you’re right. I won’t shoot you… in the head. Or in the heart. Or in the gut. You’re right, I won’t kill you. I’ll shoot you in the hands. In the feet. Knees. Elbows. Shoulders. By the time I’m done, you’ll be a fucking _marionette_ , and you’ll be out for a hell of a lot longer than the rest of tonight.”

Matt grits his teeth.

“Do it, then.”

There’s something about him—about the weak punches he’d thrown at the Albanians, at the way he’d thrown himself into danger, in the way he’d risked exposure to stay with the women after they’d called the police…

“You _want_ to die,” Frank realizes, “you’re beggin’ for it, prayin’ for it. Can’t do it yourself, that’s a fucking sin, so you’re lookin’ for someone else to do it for you.”

Matt doesn’t refute the allegation, and it’s the way he wavers slightly, the way he tilts his head down at his body, loathing his own weakness, that confirms it.

“What’s going on? What happened?” Frank asks again, gentling his voice a little bit.

“What—what time is it?”

Frank considers checking his phone, but he’s seen Red in action too many times, seen him look like he’s one strong breeze away from keeling over and then whipping out flips and kicks and punches most men couldn’t throw even when fully fit and rested.

He shifts, gets himself in between Red and the window—the roof access door is far enough away that Matt can’t beat him to it, not in the shape he’s in right now.

“Sit down and take off the mask and I’ll tell you.”

Matt slumps—shoulders seeming to fall all the way down to the ground, head hanging, and he leans heavily as he circles around to the sofa, lets himself fall with a quiet grunt of pain.

“What time is it?” he asks again.

“Three-oh-six. Why does it matter?”

Matt takes off the helmet, hands shaking with fine tremors.

“What—what is it?” Frank feels himself lowering the gun, holstering it, settling on the floor right in front of Matt, reaching out without even knowing what to do when he makes contact.

“It’s—uh. Never mind.”

“Sure. Never mind you almost got yourself killed over whatever this is. You fucking _tell_ me, or I’ll go back and blow all those Albanians away—every single fuckin’ one of ‘em.”

“Dammit, Frank.” He sounds so fucking tired.

Frank just waits, not touching him, not moving.

“It’s my birthday.”

“Really? You nearly got yourself killed because you were having, what, an early goddamn midlife crisis or some shit?”

“Something like that.” Red sets the helmet aside, lets his head fall back, bares his throat, the billboard throwing the flesh of his Adam’s apple into sharp relief.

“See, I think that’s bullshit,” Frank says conversationally. “Tell me the truth. I can’t hear fucking heartbeats, but I know you’re lying.”

“I’m not. Check my ID if you want, it’s in my wallet. Today’s my birthday.”

“You’re not lying,” Frank echoes.

“Nope.”

“Then you’re holding back.”

“Yup.”

“I’m calling Nelson.” He reaches for the burner in his pocket, the one he’s programmed with Nelson’s number specifically in preparation for this eventuality, in case he needed to twist Daredevil’s arm some day.

“I’m thirty-two,” Matt says, sounding utterly destroyed by it.

“Thirties are the new twenties, I hear,” Frank mutters. “I’m thirty-six, you don’t see me being a mopey dick about it.”

“I was an accident,” Matt volunteers. God, it furthers the wrongness of the night, that Matt’s volunteering information about himself. He’s as professional in _this_ job as he is in the other, keeps it to the weather, chitchat, sports games neither of them give a shit about, gang movements, petty crimes, power vacuums...

“Okay…”

“My dad—my dad never said it, he wouldn’t. But I’d stay with my grandma sometimes, when he was working one of his part-time gigs, still trying to get to the next division.”

“Athlete?” Frank asks, cursing himself instantly. Goddamn idiot—now he’ll never say what he was gonna say.

But Matt continues, voice suspiciously level.

“Boxer. And my grandma—she was old school Irish Catholic, y’know—you think I’m bad, you have no _idea_. My dad didn’t care much—only ever heard him pray once.”

“When?” It’s a tangent, but yet again, Frank’s mouth runs without his permission.

“The day I went blind,” Matt says simply.

Frank doesn’t say anything—he’s already imagining himself in Red’s dad’s place. He’d find God real quick, too, if his kid was screaming in front of him, losing his eyes.

“My grandma, she was hard on him—single dad. He was young, too. She probably didn’t know I was there, or that I was listening, but she was pretty clear that I was a mistake. He was—he was twenty-two, when I was born. My mother couldn’t hack it for more than a month, left or died or something.”

“What does this have to do with you wanting to get yourself killed on your birthday?” Frank asks him gently.

Matt shrugs. “He died when I was nine.” He inhales deeply, trying to compose himself.

“Sorry,” Frank mumbles, knowing even as he says it how woefully inadequate it is.

“He was thirty-one,” Matt’s voice isn’t quite steady anymore. “I’m older now than he ever got to be.”

Frank sits with it, lets it sink into him, lets himself feel the echoes of the pain radiating out from the man in front of him.

“He’d be proud of you.”

Matt laughs, bitter and angry.

“He’d be proud of Matt Murdock, maybe. He might have even liked Daredevil. But he wouldn’t want it to be his kid, out there getting his ass kicked every night. That would tear him up, Frank. He always wanted me to use my head, not my fists. He’d come home bleeding and stay up and help me with my homework, he’d sit there and read to me every night, even when he could hardly see through his black eyes. After the accident, he helped me learn Braille, bought me books. We couldn’t afford that—Braille books are expensive. He stopped eating fucking _lunch_ , used to say he wasn’t hungry—“

Matt Murdock is crying in front of him, wearing the suit with no helmet, and Frank has no idea what to do, can’t think of a single goddamn thing other than taking his hand and holding it. He remembers the night in the graveyard, what it had meant to him to see the Devil crying for his children, to know that there was a man out there—not a hero, just a _man_ , who hurt for him, who cared about what happened to his wife and his kids and wanted justice for them.

“See the thing is, Frank, he’d be disappointed in me. Know how I know?”

Frank goes to shake his head before coming to his senses. “How?”

“Because _I’m_ fucking disappointed in me, Frank. He—he was _healthy_ , fought, yeah, but there are _rules_ in boxing. I face worse odds almost every night, and yet I can’t do it, I can’t—and I don’t understand _why_ , because _he_ was a better man than I will _ever_ be—“

Jesus.

He lifts himself up on and sits on the sofa next to him, wraps his arms around this man who’s just a boy right now, looking for his dad, wanting to make him proud.

“God, kid.” His own voice is rough, and he hopes Matt hears it, hopes he takes from it what Frank had taken from the sight of Matt’s tears in the graveyard. “I’ll tell ya now, he’s fucking proud of you. You’re one of the best men I’ve ever met—sure as fuck put me to shame, anyway. You do more for this city every day than any politician, any cop, any doctor—Christ, this city? This neighborhood? It’s fucking _lucky_ to have you. He’s up there, and he’s probably buggin’ everyone he can find, telling ‘em _that’s my kid_. That _one, the one who helps people. That’s_ my _kid.”_

Matt’s sobbing now, so hard he can barely breathe, nearly hyperventilating, and Frank holds him the whole time. He rubs his back, careful of the broken rib, and when he goes quiet, he pulls away.

“Take off the suit, Red,” he says quietly, “he’d want you to rest.”

Matt looks at him, eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot, his face blotchy, sniffing because his nose is starting to run.

“Take off the suit, Matt,” he repeats gently. Matt nods jerkily, finding the zipper and undoing it. Frank helps him out of the top half so he doesn’t jar his injuries more than he has to, ignores the sparks he feels when he touches that warm skin covering strong muscle.

It’s not the time.

“Do you wanna go to bed?”

“I just wanna drink,” Matt admits, “until I can be someone else.”

“Not enough booze in the world for that, Matty. Don’t know why you’d want to downgrade anyway.”

“He used to call me Matty,” he says quietly, “it’s so obvious, people will slip into it, once they know me. But I hate it. It’s just for him.”

“Matt, then. Red. Go to bed.”

“Won’t be able to sleep anyway, what’s the point?”

Frank knows immediately that it’s bullshit—after a cry like that, sleep’ll come easy. It’s the body’s way of resetting after emotional release.

“Well, let’s try, okay, Red? If you’re still up in half an hour, we can go out again.”

Matt considers that and agrees. He stands up, kicks off the pants and looks forlornly at the boots that are still firmly on his feet.

Frank gets up and kneels in front of him, undoes the laces quickly. “Zippers,” he suggests, rising to his feet, “hell of a lot easier after a long day.”

Matt hums, kicks off the shoes, lets them land where they may, walks into his bedroom.

Frank hesitates, wants to follow because part of him still thinks that Matt’ll make a run for it the second he’s out of sight, shouldn’t follow because Matt’s given up enough of himself tonight, shouldn’t have to give up the power of letting a killer see where he sleeps.

“Get in or get out, Frank,” Matt says quietly, “don’t waffle. It doesn’t suit you.”

Getting out isn’t an option, his shoulders creeping up towards his ears at the mere thought of leaving him alone. He tells himself it’s because he doesn’t want Matt to run off and get himself killed. He ignores the small voice that says maybe he just doesn’t want to walk away from the man who’d wept in his arms not two minutes ago.

He follows, sits on the other side of the bed, on top of the covers, wipes the KA-BAR on his shirt sleeve and sets it aside on the nightstand, handgun right next to it.

“Probably aren’t going to get shot in my bedroom,” Matt tells him, already sounding drowsy.

Frank can’t really argue with that, so he takes off the vest, leaning back against the headboard.

\---  
  


He wakes with a stiff neck and a full bladder in a place made unfamiliar by daylight.

Matt’s next to him, curled up into a ball under the covers. He’s buried under the covers, but there’s a strip of his shoulder that just barely peeks out. The pale skin of his shoulder is mottled with bruises—some blue-black, some red, others a faint yellow. Frank feels a little sick, looking at it, and averts his eyes, aims them at the window, takes in the gold of the sunshine.

First things first, he gets out of bed and walks across the apartment to the bathroom. He relieves himself, splashing cold water on his face after he washes his hands. He looks at his own reflection, considers his features, watches a droplet of water making its way from his forehead down his temple to the wide open space of his cheek, slowed by the stubble that had sprouted overnight.

He doesn’t even _remember_ the nose he was born with, he thinks with a pang, doesn’t remember a time when he didn’t have dark circles, wouldn’t recognize himself without the cuts and bruises.

He ignores that train of thought. No point in dwelling on the past—that’s where he and Red differ.

He slips out of the bathroom, and sees the apartment with new eyes, the emptiness of it.

It makes something in him ache, and it’s strange, to feel pain for someone else again. He’d thought that part of himself was dead, and he walks swiftly into the bedroom to get away from it.

He rearms himself with the mindlessness of routine—vest, knife, gun. Then he remembers that it’s morning, and the Punisher vest isn’t great for daylight. He finds an oversized sweatshirt in Matt’s closet that he zips over the vest. He looks over, sees him lying there, hair messy, smelling of day-old sweat. Frank hadn’t thought to get him into the shower, didn’t even think about getting the rib looked at, had focused purely on getting him out of the suit and into his bed.

He sits next to him, remembering a thousand mornings of sitting like this on his kids’ beds. He reaches out, but hesitates. But this one thing, this _one_ thing, he can let himself have. Besides, Red’s sleeping.

He lets his hand sink into Matt’s hair, lets it linger there for a moment.

“If you were my kid, I’d be _so_ fucking proud,” he whispers. “Happy birthday, Matt.”

It’s harder than he expected, pulling his hand back. It had been comfortable where it was, but he manages it, stands up, and slips out through the window, leaving behind the empty apartment and Hell’s Kitchen’s first vigilante, curled up in a ball, eyes open and wet.

**Author's Note:**

> this is extremely rushed (as the other two works for Fratt Week have been, for which I apologize). I cranked this out in a few hours and it (as usual) took on a life of its own. 
> 
> The title is adapted from the Bastille song Winter of Our Youth. 
> 
> I've really enjoyed participating in Fratt Week, even though I found out about it quite late and therefore only did half the fics. I have a bunch more ideas, though, and if I get time, I'll write them up and post them as well! 
> 
> I'm aiming to get a fic done for faith tomorrow, for which I have a broad idea and a fifty song playlist to chew on for guidance. Wish me luck!


End file.
